by Laura Kaye
“I do. And me too.”
He grasped her hand and they slowly walked back the way they’d come. Emilie didn’t think she was imagining that his limp was a bit more pronounced than she’d ever noticed it before.
“Are you okay?” she finally asked. He looked at her with a question in his eyes, so she nodded to his leg.
“Oh. Yeah.” He guided her over to the side of the pedestrian bridge and leaned against the thick cement railing. “So, uh, I have this.” Derek grasped the leg of his jeans and tugged it up.
Shoe. Metal? Oh . . .
“Oh,” she said, her brain processing the fact that Derek wore a prosthetic leg. Emilie glanced from the metal pole of his limb to his face, and she didn’t think she imagined that his gaze was a shade more guarded than before. Which made her heart hurt a little. Had people rejected him in the past for having an amputation? Oh, my God, my leg rule! Emilie gasped and pressed a hand to her heart. “Derek, I’m so sorry about what I said.”
“What do you mean?”
“My leg rule,” she rushed out. “I didn’t mean—”
He chuckled. “That was funny as hell. Don’t give it a second thought.”
Emilie breathed a sigh of relief, though she still felt bad. Open mouth, insert foot, much? “Is it bothering you tonight?”
“Not too bad,” he said, dropping his pants leg and standing upright again.
Emilie fitted herself against the front of him, her legs in between his, and rested her forearms on his chest. “Did it happen while you were deployed?”
His gaze was still observing her. “Yeah, Afghanistan.”
So, not just an amputation from an accident but from an injury received while in the service of his country. Another in a long and growing list of things to admire about this man. “I’m sorry,” she said, finding it totally inadequate but unsure what to say to bring back his jovial mood from minutes before.
Derek shook his head and shrugged. “It’s okay.”
An idea came to mind, and it made Emilie’s stomach flip. But the longer she thought about it, the more she liked it. “So, I have an idea. But you totally don’t have to do it.”
His eyebrow arched and a bit of humor returned to his eyes. “Let’s hear it.”
Was she really ready for this? Emilie mentally brushed the question away. Inviting him didn’t equate to a lifelong commitment, for God’s sake. It was a summer barbecue. “If you’re not doing anything on Saturday, would you like to come to my house for my get-together?”
His eyes went wide. “But . . . it’s a family thing.” She didn’t know him well enough yet to know if what she heard in his voice was skepticism or wonder.
“It’s not just family, though. Some people bring friends, too.” When he didn’t say anything, Emilie shook her head. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just thought it might be fun—”
“No, it’s not that,” he said, rubbing his palms over her hands where they rested on his chest. “I don’t really have any experience with big families is all. Don’t wanna intrude.”
Emilie smiled and took a deep breath against the ache in her chest. She could almost feel his solitude radiating off of him. “You can’t intrude if you’ve been invited. Really.” She pulled one hand free and cupped the hard angle of his jaw. “You don’t have to answer now. Think about it and text me. I’d love to have you, but I’m being entirely honest when I say it’s okay if you’d rather not. For whatever reason.”
Derek looked into her eyes for a long moment and finally nodded. “I’d love to come. Count me in.”
MARZ WALKED IN the back door of Hard Ink sure about three things. First, Garza worked for SWS. Second, Emilie’s party remained their best shot at locating Garza. And third, there was no fucking way he could attend that party without her knowing the truth.
The guilt was eating him alive.
Marz wasn’t a dishonest person. He valued honesty and loyalty as much as any man could—and he’d seen firsthand what discarding those values could do. Hell, he’d experienced the fallout up close and personal. He was going to have to tell her what her brother was caught up in, and how that had led Marz to her.
As if his conscience wasn’t kicking his ass hard enough, her saying he was a good guy had been like a punch to the gut. It had nearly stolen the air from his lungs. And then she’d followed it up with an invitation to spend the day with her and her family. To be welcomed in and introduced to those she cared about most in the world.
He refused to sully something so special—at least to him—by laying it on a foundation of lies. He had to come clean. Because he liked her in a way he hadn’t felt in . . . maybe ever. And he wanted a shot.
Wasn’t he due?
And who knew. Maybe Emilie wouldn’t give him that shot. He couldn’t say he’d blame her if that’s how it shook out. But he wouldn’t know until he’d laid himself bare and asked for her understanding. And her forgiveness.
Which meant he needed to hash this out with the team. They were bound to have an opinion—one he was going to have to win over if it didn’t square with his own. But Marz couldn’t keep doing this. He shouldn’t have let himself develop feelings for Emilie. He knew that. He’d fucked up. But that horse had left the barn and there was no putting it back in.
He jogged up the metal-and-concrete steps to the second floor, punched in the key code, and entered the massive unfinished gym and found it unusually empty. Backtracking, he crossed the second-floor landing to the Rixeys’ apartment door and keyed in another code.
Jeremy had beautifully remodeled the loft-style apartment, which was warm and masculine with its brick walls and exposed beams in the high ceiling. Everyone was hanging out in the big, combined kitchen and living room, piled onto the couches and chairs, relaxing and watching a movie on the flat screen. Chinese take-out containers covered the wide kitchen island. When the door closed behind him, a few gazes swung his way and a round of greetings rose.
Marz walked up behind one of the recliners and clapped Nick on the shoulder as he glanced to the TV in time to see Will Smith’s character punch out an alien and welcome him to Earth. Ah, Independence Day. A classic.
“How was your night?” Nick said. Sitting on Nick’s lap, Becca smiled up at Marz.
“It was good. Real good,” he said.
“Learn anything useful?” Nick asked. At this, Beckett turned from his end seat on the closest of the two couches to listen in.
“I did. Kinda wanna chat about that, but it can wait til after the movie,” Marz said.
Beckett’s gaze narrowed. “We can pause it.”
Nick pressed a button on the remote and the room went silent. All eyes turned to him. And then Nick’s cell phone rang. “Ah, shit. Hold that thought,” he said. “It’s Miguel.” He accepted the call and put the phone to his ear. “Hey, Miguel. What’s up?”
Marz’s stomach dropped, instinct telling him there was no good reason for Nick’s PI friend to be calling at almost eleven o’clock at night.
And, as the call went on, it became clear from this half of the conversation that the news wasn’t great. When Nick hung up, his gaze scanned the room. “Well, boys and girls. We’ve got four more murders in lovely Baltimore City tonight. One more mid-level Churchman, which follows in the wake of the two from Tuesday. Two people that police think were innocent bystanders. Wrong time, wrong place kinda thing. And one off-duty cop—a guy that the department’s internal affairs division has apparently been investigating for possible corruption.”
“So that’s three Churchmen down. Four, if you count Bruno. Five, if this cop was one of the guys in Church’s pocket,” Shane said from the corner of the far couch, Sara leaning against him. Bruno had been the high-level Churchman that had coerced Sara into a forced labor situation at the strip club. He’d also kidnapped Jenna in an attempt to make Sara give herself up after she’d run away—actions that had cost him his life.
“Who’s doing it, though? Did Miguel say?” she asked.
Her fingers played nervously with the long strands of the red ponytail draped over her shoulder.
Nick nodded. “That’s part of why he called. They had a witness from one of Tuesday’s murders who said she saw a Hispanic man fleeing the scene. And they have security-camera footage from the scene of the cop’s murder. Another dark-haired man. Miguel said the ethnicity was unclear, but the guy’s hair was in a ponytail again, which was part of Tuesday’s description.”
“So, same guy,” Marz said, icy prickles running up his spine. “And he’s Hispanic.”
“Right,” Nick said. “Miguel’s contact at the department was going to send him a blowup of a still from the camera footage. He’ll fax it over when he gets it.”
A tense anticipation settled over the room, and then Beckett’s cell buzzed.
The guy frowned as he fished the phone from his jeans pocket and answered. “Yeah?” Pause. “We just heard.” Beckett put his hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “Jackson.” As in Louis Jackson, the guy in charge of the city’s task force on gangs who Beckett and Nick had met nearly two weeks before when Charlie had still been missing. Turned out Jackson was Charlie’s landlord’s son, and he’d been helping them get up to speed on the lay of the gangland. “Was afraid you were gonna say that,” Beckett said, and then he hung up.
“So, what’s the RUMINT?” Marz asked, his stomach now reaching for the floor. For fuck sake, what now?
Becca frowned and whispered to Nick. “What’s RUMINT?”
Nick smiled, but Marz beat him to the explanation. “Sorry. Acronyms are an affliction once you’ve spent any time in the military. Rumored intelligence.”
“Right,” Beckett said. “Word on the street is that Church has gone deep, deep to ground because it’s an inside job. Someone’s picking off his Apostles. Church has offered a million-dollar bounty to anyone who brings him those responsible for the murders. Or the explosion at Confessions.”
Sitting on the floor between Jenna’s legs, Easy ran a hand over his close-trimmed black hair. “Which is interesting, since, as we all know, it wasn’t the same people.” Easy had been their weapons-and-explosives guy on the team, and it was his handiwork that had destroyed Church’s strip club last Friday night during their mission to rescue Jenna from the gang’s clutches.
Marz nodded, his mind still stuck on the idea of the killings as an inside job. “I’m not the only one seeing the writing on the wall, am I?”
A ringing sounded from down the hall. “That’s the fax. Hop up, sunshine,” Nick said to Becca. She rose and he jogged down the hall toward his office. Becca, wearing a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a tank top, busied herself collecting the dirty plates and cups from the dinner that sat on the coffee and end tables.
“I’ll help,” Sara said, rising to reveal that her outfit—from the boxers to the oversized tee—belonged to Shane. Marz’s mind flashed to Emilie. The hints of skin beneath of the lace of her blouse and bra. What he wouldn’t give to see her wearing nothing but clothing that smelled of him.
“You’re thinking it’s Garza,” Beckett said, yanking Marz from his thoughts. “Right?”
“Makes sense to me,” Shane said, looking to Marz.
That they were connecting the dots the same way he was filtered a little relief into his gut. “Question is, why the hell would Garza be picking off the Churchmen? And on whose order? Since we know he was working with Church at someone else’s direction.”
Beckett sat forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “Jackson said the gang’s rep has taken a nosedive. Maybe after the bombing and failed gun deal from Friday night, this secret partner decided Church was no longer reliable.”
“So, if that’s the case, then Garza’s ending the partnership?”
“Real permanent, like,” Shane said.
“Betcha didn’t know it was Christmas?” Nick said from down the hall. He returned to the room a moment later. “Or that Santa’s name is really Miguel Olivero.” He handed the printout to Beckett. Shane crossed the room to look over the guy’s shoulder. Unlike Easy and Marz, Nick, Beckett, and Shane had met Garza when his team came through their base at one point a few years back.
“I think it’s him,” Shane said, staring at the page.
“Definitely him,” Beckett said, his expression hardening.
“I think so, too,” Nick said. “Hair’s longer than when we knew him, but otherwise he looks like the guy I remember.”
Marz released a long breath, his effort to understand what the hell Garza was up to leading him back to the scumbag’s sister. “Emilie said Garza has worked for a defense contractor since he got out of the Army. About as solid a confirmation that the guy works for Seneka as we’re likely to get.”
Nick braced his hands on the back of the chair. “Speaking of her, what was it you wanted to talk about before the shit started hitting the fan?”
Bracing for a fight, Marz crossed his arms. “Right. Uh, well, besides the defense contractor work, Emilie also said she hasn’t been close with her brother since he returned stateside. She wasn’t real comfortable talking about that, either. Clammed up and changed the subject. I’ve gotta tell you, not a single thing makes me think she’s in on any of this with Garza. Hell, I’m not even getting the vibe that she knows about any of it. She’s just too . . . good, too genuine.”
Beckett held up a hand. “Not a single thing besides the fact that she had a huge-ass stash of contraband in her basement, you mean.”
Marz threw him a look. “Obvo, smart-ass. I’m talking pure gut-check instinct here.”
Shane frowned. “So let’s say she’s totally innocent and unaware. The shit is hitting the fan for her brother, and now there’s a bounty out on his head. What happens when he returns to her house to grab the stash and finds a bunch of baseball bats in the gun bags and flour instead of heroin?” he asked, referring to the fake items they’d put in place of the guns, heroin, and cash. They’d made sure the switcheroo wasn’t obvious. Someone was going to have to open everything up to see it’d all been switched out and the real stuff was gone.
“Shit,” Marz said, scrubbing his hands over his face. He’d been so focused on the fucking lies that he’d lost the forest for the trees. The forest being Emilie’s safety. And this was why you didn’t get involved with an asset in an investigation. “Nothing good, that’s for damn sure.” He planted his hands on his hips, his heart squeezing as fear slithered in. “Hell, maybe we should keep some protection on her. I could go—”
“Whoa. Hold on,” Nick said. “Let’s think about this, because we are short on personnel and high on problems that need solving right here. Do you have any reason to believe Garza spends time at her house?”
Marz thought about everything he and Emilie had talked about across their dates. “Truth be told, she hasn’t mentioned him visiting. And we didn’t see him while we were there. But he must’ve gone there at some point if he’s responsible for putting the stash in her basement.”
“No idea how long it’s been down there, though,” Beckett said. “And since we know he’s responsible for these murders, that means he’s in Baltimore tonight and was in town this past Tuesday. Circumstantials point to him being here.”
Marz blew out a long breath. “Okay. At least until her family party on Saturday. Which brings me to the other thing I wanted to say. Emilie invited me to the party—”
“That’s perfect,” Nick said. “That’s our chance to grab Garza.”
Marz raised his hands. “Just hold up and let me say this. I get that going is good for the mission. But, I . . .” He shook his head.
Beckett shoved out of his chair and paced a few feet away. “Aw, for fuck’s sake. Tell me you don’t like this woman.” He turned and stalked back up to Marz, the bulk of his shoulders straining the top of his gray Henley. “Please tell me that you kept your head on straight, your dick in your pants, and that you didn’t get involved.”
Anger slithered into Marz’s chest. “Look—”
>
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Beckett said, a storm rolling in over his expression. “No offense to the ladies in the room, but this is a mission with real shit at stake, not the dating game. This fucking thing is heating up. We are being hunted. Hell, we have a goddamned bounty on our heads courtesy of one of the biggest gangs on the East Coast. So, please, Derek, tell me that you know what’s important in all this.”
That anger turned into a red-hot pressure that made Marz’s chest feel like it just might burst. “Fuck you. I know what’s at stake and what’s important. I lost my leg over this situation. Or have you forgotten?” He felt like an asshole as the words spilled from his mouth, but he was maybe angrier than he’d been in . . . God, he wasn’t sure how long. “Oh, no, you never forget about that, do you?” Annnd a little more of an asshole, now. But he couldn’t abide being questioned about his dedication, commitment, and seriousness. Not for a fucking minute. And not by the guy who was supposed to be his best friend.
Beckett’s gaze went ice-cold and all emotion bled from his expression.
Marz turned away and faced the rest of the group, and he didn’t miss the fact that the guys were looking at him like maybe he’d gotten a personality transplant in an alien abduction. Granted, anger wasn’t something he showed a whole helluva lot. He shook his head. “I like her,” he said in a low voice, refusing to feel ashamed of the first real feelings he’d maybe ever had for a woman. “I think I have to go to the party because it gives us our best opportunity of nabbing Garza. But I want to tell her what’s going on. I feel like shit lying to her. I don’t want to do it anymore and I don’t think it’s necessary. And now I think it’s in the interest of her safety that she knows what’s really going on around her.”
Crickets. He met Nick’s gaze, then Shane’s, then Easy’s. All the others were real busy not making eye contact.
Nick crossed his arms. “If you tell her, how do we know she isn’t going to turn around and tell her brother?”
